


Cullen/Dorian ficlets

by pearwaldorf



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:40:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An archive of Cullen/Dorian ficlets I've posted to my Tumblr. Mostly G but any explicit/NSFW chapters will be marked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Support

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Cullen/Dorian ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830838) by [Regalia1992](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regalia1992/pseuds/Regalia1992)



There are good days, of course, but they seem a rather distant memory when his head pounds unceasingly and he’s cold all the time. He endures, as he should. As he must.

Dorian makes no comment on the way Cullen’s hands tremble when he moves pieces on the board, but he frowns whenever he hears rattling against the table. He has no head for the game today, unsurprisingly, and Dorian wins easily three times in a row. (Without cheating. That’s how he knows he’s in trouble.)

He gets up from his chair and staggers, but Dorian is at his side immediately, holding him up. He feels like he should have the self-control not to cling, but it is a distant thought, buried under feelings of _warm_ and _safe_. Dorian’s hands move to his temples, and he can feel them sparking with magic, easing his headache and chasing away the cold in his bones. Dorian kisses him on the forehead very gently, and he closes his eyes. It is not a good day, but it is considerably less bad than it was before, and he is grateful.


	2. Deep in thought

It begins, as all good research projects do, with a literature review. Except that there appears to be nothing substantiative written about lyrium addiction. There is an old confession from the last age, but that is hardly going to help him find a solution for the Commander’s ails. This practice is foreign—unthinkable—in Tevinter, and he once again wonders what other savagery the southerners hide in daily life. 

He hears steps, and Cullen emerges from the stairs. His color is good today, hands mostly steady. He smiles, and Dorian’s breath catches. Well, he always did want to be a trailblazer.


	3. War Table [nsfw]

The sun filters in from the windows and limns everything on the table with a beautiful golden light, including the Commander. It’s like a painting by the old masters, if they’d depicted naked sweaty ex-templars in throes of pleasure.

Dorian snaps his hips and Cullen gasps, bucking against him. He pushes Cullen back even further until he’s bent almost double, nipping at his collarbone and neck. He’s rewarded with needy, incoherent noises of pleasure and the sound of pieces clattering to the floor. (He hopes it’s the one marking the operation for Starkhaven, he really does.) This is the part he finds most satisfying, where he’s able to make Cullen stop thinking so much (or at all) and just be, reveling in the mutual pleasure of bodies and sex in illicit places.

They’re both close, he can feel it, and he whispers a word of encouragement into Cullen’s ear. Cullen comes with a word on his lips that could be an oath or a prayer, and Dorian follows soon thereafter. Cullen smiles, content and beautiful and fucked out, and Dorian thinks it’s a much more pleasing sight than stuffy aristocrats or bowls of fruit.


	4. things you said when you thought I was asleep

Both the bed and the room are warm when Cullen wakes, and he is starting to think there may be advantages to having a room not on the battlements, as Dorian does. Dorian is sleeping deeply now, which Cullen is glad of, after the night they’ve had. The bad dreams remain even if the physical symptoms do not, and he’d woken up, trembling and sweat-damp. Dorian found him another nightshirt and curled around him, a ward against dangers both physical and mental. Cullen was about to drift off when he heard Dorian murmur something into his hair.

"You are strong. I know this." Cullen slept soundly then, free of any thought.

He, in turn now, presses himself next to Dorian. He’s warm, and somehow still smells of citron and wood and other things Cullen’s nose isn’t sophisticated enough to identify. Dorian’s underlying scent and the faint remnant of ozone though, that he would know anywhere. He inhales softly, tucking his head between Dorian’s neck and shoulder.

"I am a lucky man, you know." Cullen drapes his arm over Dorian’s chest, and he stirs, stretching luxuriously. 

"Take care that you remember that." He kisses Cullen on the forehead. Cullen smiles. It is a good morning.


	5. Yarrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "cure for a broken heart".

Dorian’s usual corner of the library feels suddenly oppressive, too full of people for his current mood. He slips down the stairs, past Solas’s atrium, onto the little path between the keep and the towers. Despite the ever-growing numbers of people flocking to Skyhold to be part of the Inquisition, there are still places to be alone, if one knows where to look. It is a small thing he is grateful for today, even if he is not feeling particularly charitable towards anything else.

Which is, of course, the reason he sees the Commander heading straight for him, a concerned expression on his face. Best to get this over with quickly then, so he can attend to his wounds in private. Perhaps there won’t be anybody in the old library near the liquor cellar, although given the size of some of those cobwebs he may have to fight some giant spiders for said privacy. (He is somewhat appalled to realize that seems less terrible than dealing with people at the moment.)

“You missed our chess match.” Cullen says by way of greeting. “Normally you send word if you can’t make it. Is everything all right?” Kaffas, he did completely forget, in his preoccupation. A better or more polite person would apologize, but he is not either of those.

“If you feel the need to mother hen, I’m sure there are some green recruits who would appreciate some fussing over from their handsome Commander.” Instead of getting offended or blushing, as Dorian expected, Cullen merely quirks an eyebrow. There are a surprising number of people here (at Skyhold, the Inquisition, not Tevinter, he’s not sure where the division ends) who do not go away when pushed, and he does not know what to make of it.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t pry further. But know that there are people other than the Inquisitor who are concerned about you.” At this Dorian laughs, however bitterly.

“Is this what you call it in the south when one approaches another person, heart in hand, asks for more, and is denied? Concern?” Intellectually Dorian knows it was unlikely his affections would be reciprocated. But there were signs, and flirtations returned, and a flicker of hope, all obviously misguided in retrospect. He should be used to this by now.

“Oh Maker. Dorian, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Cullen rests his hands on the pommel of his sword, as if to prevent himself from doing else with them. Dorian leans on the battlement and looks at the courtyard below, where life goes on as it always does. 

“It could have been worse.” He keeps his voice light, because it’s true. “I’ve had a surprising number of men decide all they wanted was something physical, and tell me after the fact. Not that one should necessarily believe what comes out of a man’s mouth when he’s trying to get you out of your breeches, but sometimes it helps to pretend.” 

He feels the touch of Cullen’s glove on his bare shoulder, a firm grip of support pressing its way through the leather. Dorian closes his eyes for a moment, suddenly feeling the weight of the situation settling down on him. 

“Those men, including the Inquisitor in this particular regard, are all fools.” Cullen’s voice is emphatic, steady in its conviction. “You are rare and extraordinary, and any man should consider himself lucky he caught your attention.” Dorian risks a sidelong glance, and Cullen is indeed blushing. He takes Cullen’s hand from his shoulder, holding it as best he can with the glove still on. 

“Here, let me.” Cullen inelegantly tugs the glove off with his teeth, before slotting his fingers back between Dorian’s. There is still a heavy ache in his chest, but it is entirely possible it is a small amount lighter.


	6. Attention-grabbing

He is on the ground, Cullen thinks. At the very least he is lying down, in his armor. It is digging uncomfortably into his back. He tries to get up and is swamped by a wave of nausea, accompanied by dizziness.

“I wouldn’t recommend moving yet. You took quite a tumble from your horse.” Dorian’s hands are gentle but insistent, pushing him back flat.

“I did?” Cullen says intelligently. He doesn’t remember much, only that it was very hot, and he thought it might be a good idea to get some water. He thinks he tried to dismount. Evidently he was not successful.

“You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” Dorian’s mouth curves into a smile, a little mocking, but mostly affectionate. He moves as if to get up, but Cullen grabs him by the hand. Dorian does not pull away. Cullen smirks and plants a kiss on his knuckles, softly but with intent.

“Well, it seems to have worked.”


	7. Doomed kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in a In Hushed Whispers AU that I keep kicking around in my head. Basically, what if Dorian and the Inquisitor get dumped outside Redcliffe Castle? What happens then? This is obviously towards the end of it.

The day has finally arrived. What is left of the Inquisition has decided there is no more point in delaying. They have not harried Alexius’s forces in the castle for long enough that the Inquisition hopes they have become complacent and lax in their guard. It is the only chance they have of getting Dorian and Adaar past the gate. He is nervous. It is a terrible plan, but unfortunately it is the only option they have left. One way or another, this ends today. If they are lucky, they will find Alexius and the amulet and go back in time. He would prefer not to think about what happens if they are not.

As he walks around, the camp is bilious with nervous energy. There is very little chatter as what is left of their unaltered troops gets ready for battle. He has not seen Adaar all morning, but he assumes she is with Josephine. Dorian hopes, for Adaar’s sake, that she is still coherent. (The red lyrium infusions affected some more than others. Unfortunately Josephine was one of the more sensitive ones.)

He spots the tent he wants and ducks in. Cullen is awake, pale with lack of sleep and staring at a bowl of porridge.

“You have to eat. It will do nobody any good to have you faint in the middle of the battlefield.” He scowls and starts eating with the grim determination of a man facing his mostly certain death. Dorian will consider that an accomplishment. Finally, the bowl is scraped clean and Cullen puts down his spoon. For once Dorian is at a loss for words. He does not like this at all, the way he feels as if he has been hollowed out, with what is left of his heart sitting in front of him. Cullen takes his hand and clutches it tight. They walk out onto the field like that together.

“This is it, I guess.” Dorian still does not feel witty, or even sarcastic, and that frightens him most of all. Cullen crushes his mouth to Dorian’s, fierce and desperate, before resting their foreheads together.

“They will hear me, I swear it.” He is assured, determined, and Dorian does not think he could be more proud.

“I have no doubt.”

Adaar approaches, eyes red, but composed. She and Cullen exchange a nod. He raises his sword.

The fighting is fierce, and draws attention away from an entrance where they are able to sneak into the castle. There is a terrible noise behind them, and Dorian almost turns before Adaar stops him.

“Don’t look back. I don’t think you’d like to see.”

Dorian marches ahead, looking straight on. “I think you’re probably right.”


	8. a stolen kiss

The ride back from Val Royeaux is exhausting, and the party gets in so late that Cullen heads straight to up bed. He is tired enough that he does it without a glance at his desk, and falls asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow. When he heads down the ladder in the morning, he is dismayed that he barely see the surface of his desk, as it is so covered in paper and reports he could build a small fortress around himself. (It is heartening to know that the Inquisition functions so smoothly in his absence, but looking at the piles in front of him, he wishes the machine was slightly less well-oiled.) It looks like he will need to throw himself into his work immediately if he is to have even a hope of being caught up.

He sits down, and takes a report from a pile at random. He is nearing the end of it when there is a knock on the door, and he calls “Enter!” without looking up. What’s one more thing to add to the pile?

“Just as I thought. Of course you dove straight into your work.” Instead of the messenger he expected, it is Dorian, carrying a tray in his hands. His tone is reproving, but also fond. 

“There is much to be done,” he replies. At this rate, he may be able to dig himself out in a week. If he’s lucky and doesn’t sleep much.

“You can’t do any of it if you’re passed out at your desk from hunger,” Dorian points out, and it is then that he realizes how long it’s been since he’s eaten. And now that his brain is aware, his body follows suit, a wave of dizziness passing over him. 

Dorian passes him a bowl of soup, which he practically inhales. By the time he passes the bowl back, he feels new. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“Don’t mistake me, this was not completely altruistic.” Dorian smirks, moving in closer. “This is an exchange of services.” Cullen pulls him down, kissing him long and slow until he hears Dorian’s breath catch.

“I trust that is an adequate expression of interest in future activities?” He smiles, hearing Dorian’s noise of agreement. 

“Rest assured, I will come to collect promptly at the end of the evening watch.” Cullen laughs and waves him away, waiting for the click of the latch. He turns back to his work, grabbing another report. At least now he has something to look forward to.


	9. but I'm no good at lip service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2800 words of a fake relationship story I never finished. Maybe somebody will want to read it, idk.

“Box for you, Commander.” A messenger raps at the door of Josephine’s office, said package under her arm. Cullen accepts it, frowning slightly. 

“There’s no seal, or even an indication of where it came from. That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?” He isn’t expecting anything. It could be an innocent token of appreciation or regard, or it could be a trap. Just because the threat of Corypheus has been eliminated does not mean the Inquisition does not still have enemies. 

“So suspicious!” Dorian looks up from his chair next to the fireplace. “It might just be a nice surprise. I hope it’s wine. We’re out of Aggregio, and our next shipment isn’t expected for a while.” 

“Don’t be silly Dorian. This box is much too small for wine.” And so it is, being long and narrow. Josephine takes the box out of Cullen’s hands, her deft, ink-stained fingers checking for traps. She runs a thin knife into the gap between the lid and main body of the box. Evidently finding nothing, she hands the box over to Dorian. “Let us humor the Commander and make sure there are no unpleasant magical surprises?” 

“It would be my utmost delight.” Dorian smirks, but there’s no venom behind it, and Cullen’s breath catches. His hands spark with magic, and his face becomes intent as he concentrates on the task at hand. It’s the same expression he gets when he’s contemplating a chess move that will decide the course of a game in his favor. (Cullen would never admit to finding it attractive, as it is an awkward and strange thing to admit about a friend. And it occurs to him that they really are now, after all they’ve been through.) After a moment, the light in his hands goes out and he hands the box to Cullen with a slightly mocking bow. 

Cullen opens the lid. There’s [a large dagger in scabbard](http://de0angelis.tumblr.com/post/136444759183/ganymedesrocks-art-of-swords-heroic-style) nestled in a cushion of straw. It’s unusually long, with a remarkably ornate handle of a half-dressed man wearing a lion skin. Who appears to be standing on a dragon.

“Well, it’s certainly well-made. And very extravagant. If I may?” At Cullen's nod, Josephine unsheaths the dagger, testing its heft and balance, and he sees a little bit of the bard she used to be. 

“Regardless of the skill involved in its craft, it is, as you said, remarkably extravagant. I can’t accept this.” What he does not say is how uncomfortable this much attention focused on him is. It makes him uneasy that someone, a stranger, would go to this much trouble. 

Dorian comes over and examines the hilt of the dagger more closely. His eyes get wide and then his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“Commander, I invite you to take a closer look. Does the figure look even a _little_ familiar?”

Cullen takes the dagger and peers at the handle. Oh Maker’s _balls_. The man standing on the dragon is indeed a good likeness of him, albeit with some... idealized characteristics. He's not sure the planes of his chest and abdomen have ever been that sculpted, but the line of the jaw, the grim, determined expression? It's definitely him. He sits down on Josephine’s couch, because this is too ridiculous to bear standing up.

“I hope this is all a terribly elaborate joke, instigated by somebody with more money and time than sense.” It must be, as the alternative is worse.

“If it is a joke, it is a remarkably thorough one.” Josephine peers into the box and pulls out a letter, addressed in an elegant hand to Cullen. There is a smell of expensive perfume, not heavy enough to overwhelm, but substantial enough to linger pleasantly. She unseals the letter and reads its contents, a furrow deepening between her eyes as she gets to the end. 

“Well?” Cullen prompts, perhaps a little more impatiently than he’d intended. 

“Laval de Chalons was one of the nobles at the Winter Palace who took a fancy to you; a distant relative of the now late Gaspard. It appears that now that the threat of the world ending has passed, he intends on pursuing you, intently and as only a rich Orlesian noble can.” Cullen vaguely remembers him: older, distinguished looking, didn’t pinch his arse, unlike almost every other one of his “admirers”. 

“Can’t I just send it back? ‘Thank you but no thank you,’ etcetera etcetera?” His inquiry comes out rather plaintively, but this is an exceedingly awkward matter. Josephine’s face smooths out and becomes very sympathetic, in the way she gets when she has to break unpleasant news in a polite and diplomatic manner.

“Normally, I would suggest that very thing, but the Chalons hold mining rights to a very large amount of everite, the most in Orlais. There are other sources, but they are farther away and in lesser quantities.” She sighs. “It would be… most advantageous if we could secure an agreement in writing before you return his token.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that I… play along?” Josephine’s face is alternately amused and horrified.

“Cullen! I am not a monster, to suggest such a thing. We must simply delay the revelation of the truth.” She smiles thinly, in a very Leliana-like way. 

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that. There must be another way?” Josephine tilts her head, considering.

“Alternately, we can put forth another perfectly understandable reason that you would refuse.” She sits down next to him, almost primly, but there is a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Like the fact that you are already taken.” 

“And who, pray, would be my partner in this farce? You?” She laughs, loud and amused, shaking her head.

“My days of bardic subterfuge are long behind me, I am afraid.” She looks at Dorian, considering. “But you, Dorian, you would be perfect.” At this Dorian looks slightly panicked, and sits down on his other side. Cullen touches his arm lightly, and he appears to calm down.

“Forgive me, the idea was simply a little… unexpected. I assure you, I have a great deal of practice feigning love for people when I have none." Dorian's tone is light, but there is a lurking sadness beneath the statement nonetheless. Whatever terrible things have happened in Cullen's life (and there have been many), he had people who cared about him growing up, with no expectations of him other than his own happiness. He feels great distress that Dorian did not have the same.

“Not that I think this is a good idea to begin with, but I would never ask you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable.” He squeezes Dorian’s shoulder in what is hopefully not an overly friendly manner, and feels some of the tension leave the other man’s body. Dorian looks at him, considering, and smiles in a way that makes Cullen think he will throw himself into this role with vigor. Something in his chest shifts, hopeful and nervous at the same time.

“Whyever not? This will be profoundly ridiculous, however it turns out, and I might as well be along for the ride.” 

\--

He swings the practice sword at Cassandra’s shield, where she blocks it easily. She actually looks bored, so he places the sword back on the rack and walks towards the stumps that serve as seats. Cassandra hands him a skin of water, which he accepts gratefully. She sits down on a stump and fixes him with a look. He sighs, preparing to be interrogated. She merely quirks an eyebrow.

“You’re unfocused today. Does this plan you’ve concocted still bother you?” 

“It is not my plan, but rather Josephine’s. I am simply going along with it.” He says, perhaps a little too quickly. If Cassandra notices, her face betrays nothing. “It seems unnecessarily elaborate just to secure mining rights, however important. What if we are unconvincing? Or somebody finds out? That would be an even larger disaster.” 

She tilts her head, considering. “You’re not wrong. But let us think about this. Who else except you knows about this and is going with you?”

“Only Josephine and Dorian.” 

“Do you think either of them are likely to suddenly betray you, for either whim or profit?” 

“I suppose not.” When she puts it that way it does seem rather silly to worry about. He sips more water, running through other scenarios in his head. Perhaps if he approaches it like a military operation, testing for weaknesses and confounding factors, his mind will be more at ease with the situation. 

“I think it is a rather generous thing Dorian is doing, agreeing to play along. You are lucky to have a friend like him.” Cullen stares at Cassandra, who has a smile on her face that can only be described as _dreamy_. He pours the rest of the water over his head, certain that he is suffering from heatstroke, and yet the smile remains. 

Suddenly he remembers some paperwork in his office that needs to be done, rather urgently, and makes his excuses. Approving changes in duty rosters is much less pleasant than sitting in the sun, but it helps him not think about what lies ahead.

\--

Their traveling parties are much larger and slower now that the Inquisition is a force of considerable import, and the roads are safer. On horseback and scouting ahead, it is easy for Cullen and Dorian to leave the bulk of the train behind. They are occupied for a while making sure the path is clear, but eventually, they settle into a lull, riding together in an easy silence. It is rare that it is just the two of them alone, the way that Skyhold has become crowded. Cullen savors the experience, listening to the whuff of their horses and the quiet clink of the tack as he tries to subtly admire Dorian’s profile. 

“I suppose we’ll have to come up with things to tell people if they ask us about our shared past. To keep things consistent.” Dorian’s voice cuts through the stillness, and Cullen quickly focuses on staring at the back of his horse’s neck. There is a glint in Dorian’s eyes, and Cullen wonders what sort of outlandish story he’s planning on spinning. Varric encouraged this, no doubt.

“I suppose it’s a bit melodramatic to say I collapsed in your arms the first time I saw you. In addition to being untrue, it is profoundly ridiculous.” Dorian gets a faraway look in his eyes, the one where he’s working something through in his head. “And yet, it has a fanciful sort of appeal. _Very_ romantic.” He turns to Cullen, his best charming and persuasive smile in full force. “You must admit it makes a delightful story.” 

Cullen snorts, as it is preposterous (and most assuredly because he’s not flustered). “Why don’t we just say we met through the Inquisition? It’s true, and nobody will question it.” 

“I guess you’re right. Less to keep straight, even if it is much more banal.” There is an expression on Dorian’s face that is not quite a pout, but expresses the same general sense of disappointment at not getting his way. Cullen holds fast to his wits and does not give in, because it is a very silly lie on top of the very ridiculous one they’re getting ready to enact.

“What shall we say when people ask us, ah, more personal questions?” Dorian’s smile returns, becomes more teasing, a little sly.

“Such as?”

“The usual things bored and nosy people inquire about when they find you are attached. How long we’ve been together. When you knew he was ‘the one’.”

Cullen laughs as he makes the realization . “You’re an incorrigible romantic! I see that now, happily ever after and true love being the first place your mind goes.” 

Dorian gets defensive, his back stiff. “And is that such a terrible thing?” His voice is soft, but he sounds like he’s waiting to be challenged. 

Cullen touches his shoulder: a sort of apology, he supposes. “I meant nothing by it, only that it was unexpected.” 

Dorian shifts to look at him in earnest, something unreadable in his expression. "There are many things I haven’t shared with you, as I’m sure there are a great number of things you have not shared with me." 

A pause. “You know, I don't even know your favorite color." Cullen was about to say he didn't have one, he wasn't a child, but then he looked at Dorian's eyes, and the words died in his throat.

\--

The Inquisitor’s party gets to the Chalons estate at a rather late hour, and there is just enough time for a small but hearty meal before retiring. Cullen finally manages to find his room and throws his bags in the corner. He allows himself a flop on the bed. It is too soft for his liking, but still better than many places he has laid his head. He is almost comfortable when he hears the door open. He thinks about stumbling to his feet to see who it is when Dorian bursts through the door, laden with baggage. 

“You would think that they would have given members of the Inquisitor’s party rooms that aren’t in the highest, furthest wings of the house. I think I heard fluttering. And not from wings with feathers.” The noise Dorian makes is almost Cassandra-like. He stops when he sees Cullen. “I do beg your pardon, I thought this was single occupancy.” 

“I am sorry to disappoint.” Cullen makes no move to get up from the bed. The softness is starting to grow on him, and it has been a very long trip.

“I am sure Varric is small enough that we could bunk together. Maker knows we’ve done the same in tents on the road. I shall trouble you no further, Commander.” Dorian maneuvers awkwardly, attempting to back out of the room.

“Dorian, wait.” Cullen calls. He looks at the bed, which is large enough for three. He has slept in much more cramped quarters with other people. How terrible could this be? “If you like, you can sleep here. There’s more than enough room for both of us.” Dorian drops his baggage, looking visibly relieved. 

“That is kind of you,” he says, flashing a smile that is more shy than expected. Dorian rummages in a pack, pulling out a set of soft, loose sleeping clothes. He changes into them, heedless of Cullen’s eyes drawn to the curve of his back or the lines of his calves. (He is _right there_ ; it is very difficult not to look.) If he notices Cullen watching, he either does not care or enjoys the attention. 

Finally, Dorian slides under the blanket on the other side of the bed with a grateful sigh, glad to be off his feet as well. Cullen snuffs out the light on his night table, leaving the room dimly lit with a cozy glow. Dorian reaches out and does the same, his hand a brief wavering shadow before the room goes completely dark. Cullen feels sleep stealing over him, a satisfying weariness that he hopes will keep the nightmares (not as frequent now, but still there on occasion) away. 

“Cullen?” Dorian’s voice is soft, but still surprising in the quiet. 

“Mm?” 

“I suppose I should warn you that I am an inveterate blanket hog.” The mattress shifts and the bedclothes rustle as Dorian gets into a more comfortable position. 

“I shall consider myself advised.” Cullen attempts to bid Dorian good night, but his words are swallowed by a yawn.

The morning sun filters in through the curtains, pale and delicate. If Cullen had dreams, good or bad, he did not remember them. Dorian is pressed against him, back to back, still fast asleep. He is warm, and it makes Cullen feel at ease, lazily indolent in a way he only barely recalls. He should probably get up, eat breakfast, and find the rest of the Inquisitor’s party, but it is so very comfortable and his limbs are remarkably heavy still. Cullen stretches out under the blanket, moving against Dorian’s legs in the process. He thinks he might feel the brush of toes against his calves, but surely it’s just moving about in sleep. He drifts off again, and thinks nothing more of it.


End file.
